A Confession in Five Acts
by Ethereal-Aria
Summary: Sometimes, when we have scripts in our hands or spotlights shining down upon our faces, I like to pretend.  Pretend that the confession of love he’s reciting is real, pretend that his whisper of 'I love you' is real...  Rypay.  OneShot.


**Author's Note: **Hello all and long time no see:) I've missed posting stuff here; it's actually been over a month since I last updated my Ryella story and I'm afraid that I haven't really worked on it that much. I've been so, so busy between school, theatre and my first ever boyfriend and I've just been sort of working in this piece bit by bit over the past four weeks. It will probably be my only Rypay piece, but it's definitely an interesting pairing - especially when it's one-sided, I find. Anyhoo, just a little drabble that turned into something epic and I really, really hope that you all enjoy:) My goodness, how I've missed my readers! This one is for you all:)

**Disclaimer: **I have never nor will I ever own the characters of "High School Musical". :(

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****Act I.****

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I live upon lies.

When one would read that sentence, one would automatically think this to be a dark and twisted tale, but really, it's not dark and twisted in the way one would automatically _think _it to be. My lies aren't dark and twisted in the conventional way. My lies are never said aloud; I save them for myself.

Perhaps once in a while, I'll voice the occasional lie to preserve the lies I tell myself, but only in certain circumstances. These circumstances only involve _him_. _He _is the only reason I lie to myself in the first place.

When I was young, I scoffed upon the thought of pretend; who wanted to believe in something that wasn't real? What was the point in convincing myself of something make believe if it was never to be? In kindergarten, girls my age would don crowns and wave cardboard wands about, proclaiming themselves princesses. I would simply sit at a table and draw absent-mindedly whilst singing under my breath. When the other girls would ask me why I didn't play with them, I would always answer, "It's only make believe. It's not real." This answer would always upset them and, after a while, they stopped asking me to play and joined me at the coloring table. Perhaps, in the end, they actually took my words into consideration. The point is, games of pretend have never held much interest for me.

Until I turned fifteen, that is.

There'd always been this boy in my life. He'd always been there. Always. We were never far apart; we sat together at lunch, we passed notes in class, he walked me home from school and we laughed together, too. We were extremely close and I never wanted there to be a moment in my life where he wasn't there. Wherever I went, he went. It was just the way it was. He'd hold my hand while walking, he'd kiss my cheek in greeting and he'd hug me upon goodbye. I'd always thought of him as a brother and nothing intimate had ever made me shy. None of his touches or his looks had ever made me blush and everything had always seemed natural.

One day, I'd happened to glance at him and everything changed in one fell swoop; he wasn't my brother anymore. Or, at least, I didn't look at him like my brother anymore. That time where I looked and really saw him, was one afternoon in Math class. He was sitting by the window and the midday sun was directly behind him. From my vantage point, it looked like an eclipse; the only bits of the sun I could see were those peeking out at the crown of his head, the thin skin on the tips of his ears, his slanted cheekbones and his soft chin. The rays of sunlight had caught up in his hair and were glinting off his traits, basking his skin in a golden glow. Those blue, blue eyes of his that I'd never really noticed before seemed vast and endless and, when they made contact with mine, I remember feeling a rapid sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach; it was with that feeling that I knew things had changed forever.

In the days, weeks, months and even years to come, those feelings – those sinful feelings – had remained unchanged. Even today, two years later, I've still kept those feelings for him and they are still as unexpected as they are passionate. As suddenly and as intensely as they hit me, those sentiments never wavered nor dwindled – if possible, they've only deepened.

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**Act II.**

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Sometimes, when we have scripts in our hands or spotlights shining down upon our faces, I like to pretend. 

Pretend that the confession of love he's reciting is real and that he's pined for me for forever and a day. Pretend that the slow waltz we've been rehearsing is full of contact and sensual brushes because that's how he wants to dance with me. Pretend that the way he looks at me from across the stage is the way he always looks at me; full of desire and longing. Pretend that the way he catches my hand as I run away and spins me around into a passionate embrace is an example of how he yearns for me. Pretend that the lyrics he reads from the sheet music are sung for me and that the need in his voice is really – really and truly – for me. Pretend that his whisper of, "I love you," really means that he loves me the way I do him.

But really, it's all an act.

All it is is a boy on a stage pretending to be in love and a girl on a stage who's not pretending to be in love. Bluntly put, it's as simple as that.

Bluntly put, the truth makes my heart bleed.

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**Act III.

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**

One time, in Drama class, we were given a scene where we had to kiss.

We were allowed to work with the partner of our choice and each group was given a scene from a Shakespearean play which they had to act out in front of the class the following week. He immediately sought my gaze with an eager smile, which I returned half-heartedly; I'd taken to distancing myself from him as feelings were becoming harder and harder to cope with. Unfortunately, I couldn't resist that smile of his and, before I knew it, we were handed a copy of 'Romeo and Juliet'.

I remember accepting it with a heavy heart and a glance full of dread in his direction. It wasn't acting I was to do; it was to be a one-sided reality. Addressing him a feeble attempt at a grin, I opened the script and skimmed through our portion of the play. We'd received death scene.

The death scene that included a kiss.

Never before had we kissed. Even in all of the school productions, we'd always been given parts – leads of course – that were written especially for us; romantic parts that included passionate speeches and pledges of love through song and dance, but never a kiss. Of course he'd kissed me on the cheek many times before and graced the back of my hand with the caress of his lips once or twice, but I'd never tasted his mouth upon mine. It was wrong to even think about or want a kiss on the lips from _him _of all people, but I did… God, I did.

I look back upon that Drama class with a certain gratefulness and also with a little self-disgust. I shouldn't have wanted to so much… I should have just asked for a different partner or a different scene… But no, I _had_ to kiss him.

I had to know.

"…_Call this a lightning? O my love! My wife!_

_Death that hath sucked the honey of thy breath_

_Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:_

_Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet…"_

Which is why, the following Monday, I lay there, in front of the class, as Juliet, seemingly dead. For the first few minutes of the scene, I listened to him in his last moments of life, drinking in the last of his surroundings. In trepidation, I lay, arms gracefully crossed upon my chest with a rose we'd bought on the way to school that morning in my hands, blonde hair spilling out behind me and heart hammering wildly in my chest. The beats of my heart were so fast and so loud that I was convinced that the entire class – including him – could distinctly hear them. It was as if my pulse was throbbing at full force in my veins and the tempo vibrated against the floor. I was terrified of sending out shockwaves of sound and making the chairs and desks tremble with my heartbeats' intensity. It was the only performance I'd ever given where I was actually nervous…

"… _Forgive me, cousin! – Ah, dear Juliet,_

_Why art thou yet so fair? shall I believe_

_That unsubstantial Death is amorous;_

_And that the lean abhorred monster keeps_

_Thee here in dark to be his paramour?..."_

I waited, lips dry and heart almost in pain, for the touch of his lips to mine. I waited for that moment where he would bend over me, his breath warm and sweet upon my face and finally, slowly, descend and caress my lips with his. It was wrong, wrong wrong, but I – shamefully – wanted it more than I can say.

"_… Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you_

_The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss_

_A dateless bargain to engrossing death! –_

_Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide! …"_

It was almost that time… Opening my eyes a slit, I saw the underneath of his chin and soft bump of his nose towering above me. His blonde hair that perfectly matched mine was paler in the bright classroom lights. The room was silent, which meant that he had them under his spell; under normal circumstances, he didn't attract much attention, but when he spoke from a script, he was magical.

To me, he was always that way…

"… _Here's to my love! – O true apothecary!_

_Thy drugs are quick. – Thus with a kiss I die."_

Before I had any time to really prepare myself, he kissed me.

It was tender and quick, but it lingered ever so pleasurably upon my lips. It was if he were made to be my lover. The kiss clung to the skin upon my mouth and it thrilled every nerve in my body. I was overcome by a shiver that traveled from the roots of my hair down to the tips of my toes and, with that euphoric surge, I fluttered open my eyelids and, in a dizzy and disoriented manner, rose.

I glanced around feebly and noticed him, slumped beside me, one arm slung across my stomach. Reacting emotionally, I let out a strangled cry and took his hand quickly in mine. Stroking the flesh of his fingers, I ran my eyes over his seemingly dead figure; his eyes were shut peacefully and his eyelashes were soft and golden in the light. Bringing tears to my eyes and feigning to notice something, I whispered, "What's here?" Reaching over and gently prying one of our mother's wine glasses from his slack fingers, I mumbled heart-brokenly, "A cup, closed in my true love's hand?"

Dejectedly, I peered inside and instantly recoiled and shook my shoulders in fake sobs, "Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end." As if being struck by inspiration, my eyes widened briefly and I swiftly brought the cup to lips and shook it desperately. Frustrated, I threw the cup away from me in an outburst that made many jump in their seats, "O churl! drunk all and left no friendly drop to help me after?" Turning to his serene form, I let my face soften, "I will kiss thy lips; haply some poison yet doth hang on them to make me die with a restorative" At this point, I knew that I should have leaned over and kissed him, but I paused out of nerves. What would the entire class think?

Maybe it was actor's instinct that made me lean over and maybe it was simply the fact that I wanted to kiss him again, but my mind went blank and I simply kissed him. I heard a collective intake of breath and I pulled away quickly; for a moment, I couldn't remember my line.

That must have been some kiss for me to forget my line…

"Th-thy lips are warm," I stuttered and my flustered air was not at all intentional. Actually, it should have been more longing and sad, but, instead, I let my feelings get in the way of my performance. Now, just wanting to get it all over with, I hurriedly put on a determined face and let a few tears fall. "O happy dagger," I exclaimed, snatching the wooden prop he'd slaved away on last night and contemplating it grimly. "This is thy sheath," I murmured, holding it at eye-level and making my hand quiver. "There rust," I continued, positioning the little wooden dagger at my breast and taking a deep, shuddering breath for effect. "And let me…" I whispered, closing my eyes and readying myself for the "final" blow, "…die!" I choked and buried the weapon between my side and arm.

In the dead silence of the classroom, I spluttered and drew raspy breath after and then collapsed to the floor. I let my eyes grow hazy, focusing on a spot on the floor and then slowly let my eyelids shut and my body go limp.

Applause followed soon after and Ms. Darbus made it a point to congratulate us while wiping her eyes dramatically. Beaming, we'd elegantly accepted the praise and taken our seats without looking at one another; well, _I _didn't look at him.

Once the bell rang and the other teams – the other less than stellar teams – had already performed their Shakespearean scenes, many classmates flocked to my side and inquired in awed voices about how I was able to act with my brother so convincingly. Nonchalantly, I'd replied something about it just being acting and all just make-believe. There'd been many incestuous comments made by the boys after-ward, but I'd coolly put a stop to those by reminding them about how we'd _had_ to do the project and that, even though he was my brother, we'd done way better jobs than them and their partners on their projects.

I'd tactfully failed to mention that I had more chemistry with my brother than I could possibly hope to have with anyone else…

Because I was in love him.

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**Act IV.

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**

One night, we fell asleep on the couch while watching a movie.

Well, I'd fallen asleep on his shoulder while watching a movie and, when I woke, the television was off and the room was in complete darkness. Shifting and letting out a tired groan, I heard him stir beside me.

Whenever it rained, I always persuaded Ryan to watch a movie with me; I'd always hated the sound of the rain senselessly battering itself against my window pane. For some reason, the sound broke my heart. That night, it had been raining particularly hard and I'd immediately rushed into my brother's room with a DVD clutched in my hand.

I could always fall asleep with a movie playing and his shoulder to lie on.

Realizing that I was waking up and no longer dreaming, I opened my eyes blearily and saw the beautiful sight of my brother's head leaning far back and sleeping with his neck in a graceful arc. His blonde hair that looker darker in the night was mussed and oddly alluring. One of his hands was draped across my side and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone, his collar rumpled and brushing his cheekbones. He'd fallen asleep in his clothes and seeing him all askew and in a mess made my heart swell for some reason.

I shivered underneath the light cover I didn't remember taking out and involuntarily woke him with the sudden movement. He took a sharp and deep intake of breath and slowly began to move his head. Yawning and blessing me with of glimpse of his pink tongue – which I cursed myself for even noticing – he brought his arms above his head in a stretch that brought his taut body to my attention. Gulping and sitting up and away from him, I rubbed my hands over my face in an attempt to awaken the still slack muscles in my face. He lazily dragged a palm across his forehead and then snuck a glance at his black leather Mont Blanc watch I'd gotten for him two Christmases ago. Snorting softly at the most likely absurd hour, he finally cast a glance in my direction.

Those blue eyes –even in the dark, mind you – seemed to be as bright and as beautiful as in the light and made the fibers of my being give a firm pull in his direction. He smiled tiredly and I automatically returned the gesture, ignoring the horrible way my pulse quickened.

"Urg," he groaned with a grin, while stretching once more. Slightly annoyed by the fact that he simply _had _to stretch again and taunt me, I replied with a nonchalant, "Yeah."

"Sleeping on the couch doesn't bother you?" he asked off-handedly, rubbing his right shoulder.

"Of course sleeping on the couch bothers me," I answered, while gathering up the covers and purposely avoiding those eyes, "I'm delicate."

He laughed gently and the sound made my entire countenance soften, "I forgot – sorry," he amended as he rose from the couch.

The lack of his weight made the cushion lift and I was left feeling colder without his body nearby, "Where are you going?" I asked, wincing intrinsically at the mixture of panic and need in my voice.

"To my bed, oh, delicate one," he teased, retrieving his pillow smoothing out the place where he'd sat.

"You're just going to leave me here?" I asked in what I hoped to be a haughty tone, but truly fearing his answer to be a 'yes'.

"Yup," said he as he turned his back to me.

"Ryan!" I exclaimed angrily and rising quickly, the covers pooling at my feet. "Wait! You can't just –"

He faced me again, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter, "I'm kidding, sis," he chuckled, "Chill. Besides, you're going to wake up Mom and Dad if you keep shouting at me like that."

Offended, I blanched and felt all of the momentary anger slip away and feel a defensive reply rise to my lips, "I did not shout – you're exaggerating, you Drama Queen," I answered coolly, using my old nickname for him.

"Fine, fine," he conceded, "Let's just go to bed, okay?" he asked, hands raised in a shield-like motion and a crooked smile perched upon his mouth.

"Brightest thing you've said in the past five minutes," I complimented, using my best snarky voice. Bending down to pick up my fluffy, purple blanket and folding it over one arm, I straightened and whispered, "Shall we?"

He nodded, blinking exhaustedly and managed a smile. I returned it tentatively and started toward my room, head bowed and just wanting to settle into bed and escape his sensual, scruffy state.

We shuffled through the hall in silence and when I reached my door, I eagerly clasped the handle, but his voice like molten gold stopped me and my heart. "Are you gonna be alright?"

"What do you mean?" I asked softly, only meeting his gaze after I finished my sentence – I could feel the nervousness stirring in my blood. He made me nervous.

"With the rain. It's gotten worse – can't you hear?" he questioned, gesturing to the nearest window.

Sure enough, when I strained my ears, I could hear the constant pitter-patter of the rain brutally slamming against the glass and my heart gave a precarious lurch. "Oh," I simply said, not really knowing what to do.

The fear must have shown in my voice for he smiled gently and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. "Don't worry, I'll keep you company."

And he did.

That night, he sat in the uncomfortable, blue plastic chair with polka dots that I'd somehow kept in my room since my seventh Birthday and he stayed with me through the rain. However, before we drifted off and into sleep once again, the words of 'I love you' slipped from my lips in a sincere whisper that I couldn't seem to hold in. The minute that statement left my mouth, I froze underneath the warmth of my covers and waited – not breathing, heart still and numb in my chest – in the dark for his answer. Still, the rain hammered away outside, but I barely cared; I'd finally spoken those words to him off-stage with the same amount of seriousness as when I was acting. I'd finally told him as I would a lover; with this intense, yet naïve vulnerability.

The room seemed to still along with my body, but I didn't have to wait for very long. His reply came soon after, "Love you, too, Shar," he said warmly and that's when I knew.

He didn't love me.

His voice was all wrong; he hadn't said it as I had said it. He hadn't even said '_I _love you, too' just 'Love you, too'. He hadn't used my full name, he hadn't said it slowly and with care or palpable tenderness, he just hadn't said it right. He didn't love me. Not the way I loved him… He didn't really love me… There'd been something in his voice, something in his tone that told me.

He didn't love me.

Choking on the tears that mounted to my eyes at an alarming rate, I ignored the 'Goodnight' he wished me minutes later and simply stared at the wall opposite me. I don't really remember how long I stared at that wall as I had one of those horrible nights where you sleep and wake up so many times you can't piece together what happened. All I could remember was his reply of 'Love you, too, Shar' that refused to be forgotten.

That was the night I found out he didn't want me the way I wanted him. The night I found out he secretly didn't desire me the way I desperately desired him. Craved him. The night I realized he would never learn to love me the way I would always love him.

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**Act V.

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**

Days after the realization, I finally figured out why rainstorms had always bothered me so much.

Perhaps these are the sort of things people only understand when undergo something tragic and they begin to question themselves and their lives or just depressing things one concocts when they're unhappy and heartbroken, but it came to me one night; I've always identified with the rain.

Raindrops are desperate things; they cling to whatever they can in order to avoid hitting the ground; that hard, cold, harsh ground that kills and breaks the fragile drop. The rain is born to free fall and simply hurtle through the sky believing that all will work out; it tells itself that it will find somewhere safe to stay and escape the reality of being crushed. It's tossed and blown about by the wind and will latch itself to anything it can; anything that seems caring enough to help it evade its inevitable fate. The rain is innocent in thinking that it can simply dodge the worst and always come out unscathed. The rain is a natural born liar. Just like me, it tells itself things that it knows deep down aren't true. The rain tells itself that it can shirk pain and that unavoidable contact with ground and I tell myself that Ryan somehow loves me.

And now, whenever I hear those pitiful, naïve drops of rain hit my window, I can vividly picture another laughable hope die and I can't help but think of my heart; my heart that I blindfold and let loose in the dark until it falls off a cliff or hits a wall. That heart that it forced to believe the lies I feed it and cling to every little shred of affection I take to be love on Ryan's part.

The heart that hit the ground when I realized he didn't love me and the heart that still let's itself fall whenever he spares me a glance and that continues to flatten itself against reality when I remember that he doesn't feel the same.

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**Curtain call.**

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**Final Note**: Thank you all so, so much for reading and I sincerely hope that it was worth a glance. It's rather depressing, I know, but I feel as if there are too many one-sided Rypays with Ryan as the one in love. I hope that this worked and hearing from you would make this all worthwhile. I love all of your comments and thoughts and feedback on this piece would be so, so appreciated as it's somewhat outside of my comfort zone. :) Once again, thank you for reading and hope to hear from you:)


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